Breathe
by TheSematary'sProgeny
Summary: It is the year of the Great Revelation. The Dallas vampires are holding a Halloween extravaganza to celebrate their "coming out of the coffin," and the occasion is a bittersweet one for Godric.


"Take good care of Frankie, okay?" Stan's human companion of the week was a short, plump girl whom humans would determine to be no older than her late twenties (it was so difficult for Vampire to ascertain age…); her face was one of the kindest in the entire nest. She was encased in a black sweatshirt and jeans; a skeletal motif consisting of ribs, spinal column and the top of the pelvis was printed on the front of the sweatshirt, whose hood was pulled up to partially shadow the all too real "drained"—no pun intended—look of her face.

"Of course." Godric cradled the albino rabbit against his chest; the woodland creature's warm heat and the rapid thumping of its heart were strangely calming—and at this moment the Vampire Sheriff of Area Nine craved tranquility more than anything else. "As if he were—" _Eric_ "—my own son."

"Great!" The girl smiled brightly, blissfully unaware of the _double-entendre_ behind Godric's words, and oh, how he wished he were she. "I _love_ your costume, by the way. Is it authentic?"

"Every piece." In his top hat, frock coat, properly knotted cravat, trousers and polished shoes—all black—and white shirt and spats, Godric would have fit in well among nineteenth century English gentlemen. In this day and age, however—and not even because it contrasted with his customary "New Age" attire—his wardrobe would look quite out-of-place.

"That's so awesome! Makes me wish I'd lived back then. Well, I'll meet you after the party to pick up Frankie, okay?"

Godric nodded, tipping his hat to her, and together they stepped into the nest proper and dispersed themselves into the crowd.

Godric petted the rabbit absentmindedly, the music and goings-on around him lost in thought…

Earlier on in the evening, before the commencement of the festivities, Godric had been laying out his masquerade upon his bed when he heard Isabel answer the communal phone in the hallway leading to the kitchen. The click of her pumps upon the floor had seemed slow and deafening as she had approached his door—not yet closed—and knocked. Worry engraved upon her face, she had declined his invitation to enter with a slight shake of her head; holding the phone out to him, she had mouthed a name that he never would have expected to hear.

But he later realized that that must be a lie, because some buried knowledge had told him that he had expected to hear that name in request to his presence for over sixty years.

_Eric_.

Godric had placed the phone to his ear as Isabel left with her usual courtesy, but the constant, drowning weariness had not allowed him to speak.

"Hello? Godric?"

He had closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe: inhale, exhale. Just once.

"Godric?" Softer, full of wonder and concern. "How are you?"

Inhale, exhale.

"Listen, I… I just called to say… I'm sorry, okay?" Eric's struggle for words had been so perceivable… Godric still knew him all too well, then. "I know that… I know that waiting nearly seventy years to apologize to someone really makes a guy look like a complete asshole, and I utterly deserve the image; I know that. But… all I can say is that I'm sorry. Whatever it is that I did in 1945 to upset you that much… I'm sorry."

Godric swallowed.

It was all wrong. It always had been, and always would be.

Inhale, exhale.

"Godric? Say something. Please."

Pressing END CALL had brought no relief from what Godric had heard in his Progeny's last few words…

"I admire your choice of attire, Godric. It is… intriguing."

Godric blinked, the appearance of his first-in-command at his side bringing him back into the present faster than Superman was reputed to run. An amber clip shaped like a butterfly sparkled in the loose twist of her dark hair, and a strapless Spanish dress of layered crimson graced curves that Isabel's human companion, Hugo, would certainly find appraisable; Godric noted that the man in question, dressed in Zorro façade, was hovering by the punch bowl, deep in conversation with the girl who had allowed him to borrow Frankie. "How so?"

"What she's _tryin'_ to say is that she thought you'd've worn your old Nazi uniform." Stan, dressed in steel and chain mail, came up to stand beside Isabel, forming an odd sort of triangle between the three of them.

"You mean that is what _you_ would have meant to say," Isabel retorted. "Because Godric is a good leader who _never flaunts his power_."

"Sure," Stan muttered; he and Isabel glared at each other, and the air between their eyes smoldered.

Godric privately agreed with his Deputies: the irony would have been amusing, and he had actually considered it… but when he had lifted the lid on the box and touched the brim of his cap, the barrage of memories had been worse than being hit "head-on" with a full volley of machine-gunfire.

Godric would know.

"Stan, Isabel, please." They regarded him obediently, and he dropped his gaze to Frankie, scratching the rabbit behind the ears, buying time. "Magicians make people happy. Besides—" he could have sworn he heard his muscles creak as he forced himself to smile and lifted the rabbit up to eye level "—who could resist such an adorable face?"

"You should keep _this_ human companion around longer than you did the previous ones, Stan—otherwise I may have to steal this little one." Isabel accepted the rabbit from Godric and kissed the top of its small head.

But apparently Stan had not had enough. "You ought to wear the uniform next year—I'm sure everyone here would enjoy properly saluting their _Fuhrer."_

Isabel's eyes widened. "Stan—"

Cold hatred and disgust descended upon Godric so quickly that his fangs nearly snapped into place. If Stan had said as much even forty years earlier…

Godric stepped closer to his Deputy and stared up into his face, his own visage maintaining its constant tranquility with great effort. "You offend the memory of the humans and vampires who died during that terrible conflict. I would not hear you speak so again. Do you understand?"

Stan stared back, and for a moment Godric thought it would actually come to blows. But finally Stan lowered his head and literally backed off, if only a single step. "Yes, Sheriff."

"Come on, Godric," Isabel said, handing Frankie back to him and placing her hand gently on his shoulder as she frowned at Stan. "Let's go find more pleasant company."

Godric followed her, soothing the rabbit with gentle strokes of his fingers as he once again forced himself to smile.

It was going to be a long night.


End file.
